


Cinnamon Lips

by f-ing-ruthless-baz (f_ing_ruthless_baz)



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drinking, Enemies to Lovers, First Kiss, M/M, POV Alternating, Watford Fifth Year
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-10
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-08-14 13:56:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20193391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/f_ing_ruthless_baz/pseuds/f-ing-ruthless-baz
Summary: “Snow, did youdrink my Fireball?”“Your what?” He blinks at me, wobbling in place for a second, so I nod at the flask in his hand and he grins. “It tastes like cinnamon sweets and burning,” he says proudly.“That it does. Now hand it over.”He scowls. “You know, you act like you’re so fucking perfect all the time,Mr. Know-It-All, Mr. Good-at-Magic, Mr. Shampoo-Advert-Hair—”“Snow—”“But imagine what people would say if they knew BasiltonfuckingPitch, top of the class, hangs out with corpses and drinks cinnamon sweets?”Simon returns to the Catacombs after having found Baz down there, drinking, the night before. He wants to find clues about what Baz is plotting--or maybe he just wants a break.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> How many years has it been since I posted a Snowbaz fic? Too many to count, surely.
> 
> Anyhoo, I'm back with some brand-spanking-new content, inspired by a prompt I was sent: _Simon follows Baz to the catacombs that one time and finds him drinking and then Simon starts going down there and they just drink together and hang out and it becomes a ritual and they’re both Confused_ (Thanks for the suggestion, anon!)
> 
> Title comes from the song ["C-C-C-Cinnamon Lips"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4z3R53DNMomldRE4QqZLcl?si=wWa0TzxXR_2fX2mdF03ruw) by OK Go, because I'm _reaching_, okay?

**SIMON**

_“You’re the worst Chosen One that’s ever been chosen.”_

Baz’s words echo in my mind as my hurried footsteps echo down the stairs to the Catacombs—I finally found him down here last night, but that only gave me more questions than answers. So I’ve returned to get what I came for.

I don’t know what he’s up to, but he’s plotting something, I’m sure of it.

He seemed strange last night. Yes, it was probably due to the drinking, but that in itself was strange. I never took him as the sort to get drunk alone in a tomb full of dead children—then again, it sounds pretty on-brand for a vampire. But the fact that I managed to find him down here, after so many months of searching, makes me suspicious. Did he want me to find him? He didn’t seem surprised to see me.

He was just as aloof and arrogant as ever, mocking me, laughing at me. Though his laughter lacked its usual edge. Like he no longer takes joy in tormenting me; it’s just part of his nine-to-five. It was unsettling.

The worst part was that it almost felt I was seeing a different side of him. Imperfect and tired and just fed up with it all. All what, though? He has everything, and yet he acts like my mere existence is an affront to his dignity. But last night was different, somehow. I know his cutting remarks were directed at me, as always, but his anger felt… inward-facing. As if maybe he hates himself almost as much as he hates me.

It’s sort of sad to think about it. So I try not to.

I end up back where I found him, in the Children’s Tomb, and begin my search in earnest. I’m not sure exactly what I’m looking for—clues, evidence, anything to prove I’m right—but I know there has to be _something_. I poke around the stacks of skulls, which are pretty damn creepy, prodding them slightly with my wand while I keep my sword gripped firmly in my other hand. I even try some magic on them, using every spell I can think of that might reveal something to me.

One skull near the bottom of the pile rolls towards me a little, and I take a step back, instinctively. After I’m certain that it’s not some sort of demonic creature in disguise, I take a closer look and notice something that had been wedged between it and the wall.

Baz’s flask.

Well, at the very least, this proves I didn’t imagine everything last night. Baz really does come down here to drink alone in a tomb full of dead children. I wonder how often he does. I can’t imagine this is the reason he stays out late _every_ night. For one, he never seems hungover in class. (Though maybe that’s a magic thing.) (Or a vampire thing.)

I quickly stash my wand to pick up the flask and inspect it, in case it has any sort of markings or details that might give something away about Baz. Unfortunately, there’s no written confession of him being a vampire scratched into the side, or a detailed schematic of his plot to destroy me. Not that I was expecting to find such a thing, exactly.

There is an inscription, though. An engraved name. _N. Pitch._

For a moment I wonder if Baz has yet _another_ initial in his name, one that I don’t know about, but then I realize it’s not supposed to be his name. It’s his mother’s.

Maybe it’s a family heirloom, or something. _Can a flask be an heirloom?_

I have no idea, but I open the lid anyway, out of curiosity. I can feel there’s something left in it, and when I lift it to my nose to take a whiff, I’m immediately hit with the scent of cinnamon. It smells nice actually, like those sweets Micah brought over when he was on his exchange from America.

I’m surprised this is what Baz likes to drink. I expected something more distinguished from him, I suppose. Not alcohol that tastes like sweets. It smells good, though, so I try a sip.

It sort of does taste like those sweets, after all, but it also feels like someone set fire to my throat with a flamethrower. I start to cough and nearly choke for a second, but it soon wears off and leaves a rather pleasant aftertaste. Pleasant enough for me to risk taking another, larger sip. It still burns, but it’s growing on me.

It’s actually not that much of a surprise that Baz drinks stuff that tastes like fire, considering his family are all fire magicians—he’s brilliant with fire, despite being highly flammable. (I think.)

It occurs to me by my fourth or fifth swig from his flask that Baz might very well kill me if he finds out I’ve been drinking his booze. From his heirloom flask. That thought, however, just makes me snort a laugh and carry on.

**BAZ**

I didn’t go back to our room after Snow found me drinking down in the Catacombs last night. I couldn’t be sure he wasn’t going to snitch about me consuming prohibited substances on school property, so I avoided any of my usual haunts all day. (Thankfully it’s the weekend and I didn’t have to deal with him in any classes.)

I also couldn’t just walk out of the Chapel with contraband on my person, in case he brought the Mage to search my pockets, so I stashed my flask—my mother’s flask—in _Le tombeau des enfants_, to be retrieved at a later time.

I feel ridiculous for letting Snow catch me like that, though. And I did; I _let_ him. I knew he’d been trying to hunt me down in the Catacombs for weeks on end, and I finally gave in and let him have what he wanted. Me.

Well, not that he wanted _me_, of course—I’ve never been that fortunate—but rather my weakness, exposed to him. Even he had to have noticed I was not top of my game last night. Weak insults. Mirthless laughter. Like I didn’t have the heart to revel in his misery anymore. Maybe I don’t.

_“You’re the worst Chosen One who’s ever been chosen.”_ That was the best I could do? Pathetic.

I kick a couple of small stones out of my path as I drag myself through the Catacombs to collect my flask, and they hit the wall with a satisfying clatter. I’m usually more careful about making noise down here, but I somehow doubt that Snow will be prowling around now that he got what he was looking for.

Or, at least, I hoped he wouldn’t be.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, suppressing the bewilderment in my voice in favour of impatience.

He’s sitting on the ground, near where he found me last night, frowning as he looks up at me with his sword resting across his lap. He makes a garbled noise in his throat, like he’s trying scoff but doesn’t know how. “I should be asking you that,” he says, and pulls himself to his feet unsteadily, using his sword as a prop.

“Snow, did you _drink my Fireball?_”

“Your what?” He blinks at me, wobbling in place for a second, so I nod at the flask in his hand and he grins. “It tastes like cinnamon sweets and burning,” he says proudly.

“That it does. Now hand it over.”

He scowls. “You know, you act like you’re so fucking perfect all the time, Mr. _Know-It-All_, Mr. _Good-at-Magic_, Mr. _Shampoo-Advert-Hair_—”

“Snow—”

“But imagine what people would say if they knew Basilton _fucking_ Pitch, top of the class, hangs out with corpses and drinks cinnamon sweets?” He looks like he’s trying to sound menacing, but barely makes it three seconds before bubbling over with laughter.

(I decide not to point out that Bunce is currently top of our class, since my coursework has suffered a little over the past few months—in no small part due to Snow’s constant, infuriating presence in my life.)

“Do you think I care what people say about me?” I say casually, even though I most certainly do—and I hate it.

He stops laughing in order to scrutinize me, holding his sword limply at his side as he steps right up in my face and glares. I don’t allow myself to back down, despite worrying that he’ll hear my heart pounding in my chest. (Though maybe that will finally get him to give up the whole _vampire_ thing, since I’m pretty sure he thinks I don’t have a heart.)

“I guess not…” he says slowly, and then grumbles a _whatever_ as he shoves the flask against my chest.

I fumble to take it from him before he has a chance to drop it, and our hands overlap briefly, sending a jolt up my spine. He must not notice my panic, because he drops his hand away like it’s nothing and starts walking in a lazy circle around the tomb, his sword swaying from side to side.

“You know what, Baz?” he says, louder than necessary, elongating the vowel sound in my name, like it amuses him. “I don’t get you.”

I force an air of boredom about me and slip the empty flask into my pocket. “And what don’t you get, exactly?”

I know I shouldn’t be encouraging this, but there’s something about the way Snow’s loosened up that’s quite entertaining. Around me, he’s usually clenching all his muscles so hard that I think he’s going to break something. And while it’s a frustratingly good look for him in a t-shirt, I think I prefer him like this.

He stops between me and the exit, and faces me again. “You have everything, Baz. The world is your fucking oyster—and I know that sounds really disgusting, but it’s actually a good thing, I think. But you’re the most hateful, miserable git I’ve ever met. You can have anything you want, and you choose to shit on my life. Get a fucking hobby!”

“If anyone needs a hobby, Snow, it’s you,” I say. “Maybe if you spent less time stalking me, you’d make more progress with Wellbelove.”

“I’m—I’m not _stalking_ you!” He looks horribly offended by the accusation and I hold back a laugh. “I’m just keeping my wits about me, that’s all,” he adds, though he nearly hits himself in the head with the flat side of his sword when he makes a large gesture with his arms, and lowers it sheepishly before making it vanish—wherever it is that the Sword of Mages goes when Snow’s not using it.

“Excellent work, Snow. Following a vampire down to his evil lair and drinking all his whisky is an extremely wise move, isn’t it?”

“Aha!” he says, his face lighting up with excitement as he thrusts his fist in my direction, like he’s forgotten his sword’s no longer in it. “You admit that you’re a vampire!”

I sigh wearily. “I’m merely trying to follow your thought process.”

He’s still frowning at his empty fist when I make a move to leave. “Wait,” he says when I walk past him, and grabs my sleeve. “Just… Tell me why you’re always so mean.”

“I’m _evil_, Snow. Haven’t you heard?” I sneer, wrenching my arm out of his grasp.

“_Are you_, though?”

“You’ve been saying so for years, so—”

“You know, when I was kid,” he cuts in, leaning closer, as though he believes he’s telling me something very important and needs my focused attention—so I give it to him—“there was this one care home with a fenced yard for us to play in, and it was really shit, but sometimes we’d have squirrels and we’d all chase them around, and one time a few kids chased one into a corner and one of them tried to pet it, and it bit him, and he decided that meant squirrels were evil and said he was going to throw rocks at them, but then one of the older kids told him the squirrel was probably just scared because it was trapped in a corner and was just trying to defend itself.”

Snow stops his rambling and smiles smugly, like he thinks he just won an argument I didn’t even know we were having.

“What, pray tell, is your point?” I ask, though I’m suddenly aware just how close he is, and the smell of cinnamon on his breath is quite distracting. I find my attention inadvertently drawn to his lips when he licks them, so I force myself to look away.

“Squirrels aren’t evil,” he says.

“What an astute observation—”

“Just, some animals lash out when they’re feeling vulnerable, yeah?”

I hazard a glance back at him and find him staring intently, studying my face. I want to punch his. (I suppose he’s right about that whole _lashing out when vulnerable_ thing.)

“I have no idea what you’re implying,” I say coolly, “but don’t.”

He slowly breaks into a grin.

“Fuck off,” I say before marching out. If I stay, I’m afraid I might do something I’ll seriously regret—though I’m not sure what.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _So this is just a thing we do now, huh?_

**BAZ**

It costs me an absolute fortune to replenish my stash by the following week. Well, it’s not a fortune for me, per se, but I know that Dev is enormously overcharging for bottom-shelf liquor, simply because he’s the one with the _connections_. (I tried to argue that I also have connections, but he pointed out that, as my cousin, he _is_ my “connections.”)

Honestly, I’d rather not know how he acquires it. All I know is that I’ve found a way to make myself feel like my life isn’t going off the rails—at least temporarily—every once in a while. It’s not a habit I’m proud of, but when it all gets a bit much, I’ve enjoyed slipping down into the Catacombs and warming my insides with whatever barely-drinkable _liquid courage_ Dev’s managed to procure for me at the time.

This week is off-brand coconut rum, which has much less kick than the Fireball, but it’s probably for the best. Now the smell of cinnamon makes me think of Snow, loud and loose, sloppily licking his lips as he tells me he doesn’t think I’m evil. (What am I even supposed to do with _that_ information?)

Each pull from my flask draws me further away from ruminating on it too hard, and the tightness between my shoulder blades starts to ease up as I let my head drop back against the stone wall behind me. Sometimes I wish I could drink enough that I forget Snow even exists, just for a few minutes. Pretend that he doesn’t consume my every waking thought.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I’m gay, honestly. By third year, I found myself spending far too much time distracted by the upper years’ boys’ uniforms, so it wasn’t a difficult case to crack. It was the slow, sinking understanding that I, in addition to being _attracted to blokes_—generally speaking—was _inordinately attracted to one bloke in particular_, and that this particular one was literally going to kill me some day. (I feel like a bit of a twit for not realizing it sooner, actually, considering I’ve wanted to kiss that mole on his cheek since I was twelve. But I also wanted to smash his beautiful face in, so it was all rather a confusing mess to sort out.)

The fact remains that I can’t stop thinking about him, not ever—and especially not when he follows me around constantly. Well, he _used to_, at least. This past week I’ve experienced far less of Snow’s physical presence, and while once upon a time I might have said that was my greatest wish in life, it turns out I don’t much care for it.

Maybe he thinks he’s got me all figured out and no longer needs to keep tabs on me every hour of the day. He thinks I’m _vulnerable_ and _lashing out_, and no real threat to him. But I can still make his life miserable—I’m spiteful enough for it, no doubt.

I’m just not sure if I want to, anymore.

I’m not even sure what I want at all.

_Simon_. That’s what I want, for fuck’s sake, but there’s no point letting myself. I want to twist his bronze curls between my fingers and whisper things in his ear that make his blue eyes crinkle with laughter. And I want to snog him senseless. Not that I would know how to do any of those things, even if we weren’t sworn enemies.

_Crowley, I’m pathetic._

I close my eyes knock the back of my head against the wall a couple times to try and shake these thoughts loose from my mind, letting them fall away. _I am not going to think about Snow and what I would do to him if he were here right now._

I’m not going to think about his endearingly freckled face and how I want to spit in it—or maybe lick it, I’m not sure.

I’m not going to think about his warm hands, calloused from sword-fighting, and how I want to wrap mine around them.

I’m not going to think about his voice, the way he growls my name when he’s particularly riled up, and how I—

“Baz.”

My eyes shoot open at the sound of said voice, and I see Snow looming over me. He’s managed to get the drop on me; I didn’t hear or smell him approaching—alcohol really fucks with my senses.

“Thought I’d find you here,” he says, arms akimbo, staring down at me. “You’re usually back in our room by now.”

I let out a flat chuckle and raise my flask to my lips. “I didn’t realize you were keeping tabs on me,” I say. “Anymore.”

“So, what, is this, like, your _thing_ now?” He frowns as I take a swig. “You just come down here to get drunk every Friday night?”

“What of it? Are you going to _tell on me, _Snow?”

He seems to consider this a moment, but then drops his arms at his sides. “No,” he says reluctantly. He runs a hand through his hair, tugging on his curls for a moment, before reaching towards me with it. “Go on, then.”

At first I think he’s trying to help me up, but it soon registers that he’s expecting me to hand over my flask. “Piss off. I’m not letting you steal my property to turn me in—”

“Chill out, I just wanna drink.” In one swift—and uncharacteristically smooth—motion, he leans down and swipes the flask right out of my hand. He takes a sip and pulls a face, smacking his lips afterwards. “What is that?”

“It’s _mine_, is what it is,” I say, making a grab for it, but it’s beyond my reach and I merely graze his arm.

His expression is curious as he stares at the wall, like he’s contemplating something of great significance. “Hmm, I _think_ I like it… Not sure.” He takes another gulp. “Yeah, it’s alright.”

“Thank you, _Yelp-dot-co-dot-UK_, for your invaluable feedback.”

He snorts and moves to take a seat next to me, though he grumbles as he slides his back down the rough surface of the wall. “Oof. That was a bad idea,” he announces once he’s settled into place, a good half arm’s length away from me. He takes another drink and hands me the flask again.

I watch him out of the corner of my eye, but don’t dare turn my head lest he think I _care_ that he’s here. I do, obviously, but he doesn’t need to know that.

_Why the fuck is he here, anyway?_

We sit in uncomfortable silence, passing my mother’s flask back and forth, like some sort of unspoken agreement. It’s oddly civil, for us, but I wouldn’t call it companionable. There’s too much tension in the air between us. My mind wanders through this space, thinking of all the ways this could mean something else, something other than… whatever it means. (A temporary ceasefire, I suppose.)

“Here,” he says, after an indeterminate amount of time, and his voice cuts through cold ambiance of the Catacombs like his sword, startling me out of my reverie.

I look over at him curiously as he holds the flask towards me, despite it being his turn, and says, “Last bit.”

“Oh. Have it,” I say, waving my hand dismissively in his direction.

“You sure?” he asks, and I flap my hand again. “Cheers.”

I allow myself to watch him a little longer, as he brings the flask to his lips and tips it all the way back. The front of his neck is long and exposed and highly distracting—maybe it’s a vampire thing. I don’t think I want to bite him, though. (At least not like that.)

After his showy swallow, he returns my flask and licks his lips again. (_Fuck_.) “Thanks for… Thanks,” he says before hoisting himself up to stand. He takes a moment to steady himself on his feet and heads for the exit.

I follow him with my eyes until he stops and glances back at me. He looks like he’s about to say something, but shakes his head and continues on.

Well.

I guess he’s ruined coconut for me as well.

* * *

**SIMON**

This is probably a bad idea.

I don’t know why I did it last week—I guess I just liked pretending everything wasn’t shit for a little while—but the fact that I’m down in the Catacombs _again, _for the third week in a row, proves that I just don’t learn.

I mean, it wasn’t until Saturday morning that it occurred to me I could have been playing right into Baz’s hand. That he could have tricked me into drinking from his flask so he could poison me. He also drank from it and was fine, but who knows how poison affects vampires? Overall, a truly terrible idea.

But maybe not as terrible as this.

I thought he’d be here by now—he left our room a good ten minutes before I followed—but he seems to have stopped somewhere along the way. Though, it’s possible he _doesn’t_ come down here to drink every week, and I’m even more of an idiot than I thought.

Nevertheless, I pace the length of this section of the tomb for a while, and then settle into my spot against the wall. _My spot_. As if this is now a thing that I do, too.

I have to say, sitting in silence as I drink with my rival is not something I ever envisioned myself doing—at least not while my rival is a posh wanker who likes to condescendingly correct my grammar when I get frustrated. But it was kind of… fun? I don’t know if _fun_ is the right word, though. _Not completely shit_ might be a better description.

It felt kind of weird, sitting with him like that. It was nothing like those rare occasions when we’re both in our room, studying at the same time. I spend most of that time trying to tune out his presence, imagining he’s not even there. This was different. I was acutely aware of him the whole time.

Not that it’s _that_ weird for me, really. I spend most of my life hyper-vigilant about keeping track of everything he does, so he can’t _pull a fast one on me_, or whatever. But I didn’t think he was going to pull anything that night.

He seemed… normal. I mean, not _Normal_, but like he was just—well, just a boy.

Still, this whole thing is ridiculous, and the longer I wait here, the more nervous I get—I’m not sure if it’s because I’m afraid of what will happen if he shows up, or afraid of what will happen if he doesn’t. (It’s weird for me to worry about getting _stood up_ in a situation like this, right?)

I’m tugging my hair so hard I’ll probably tear it out at the root if I continue, so I decide to call it a night. I’m about to push myself up from the ground when I hear footsteps. _Baz_.

He’s here.

Baz stops in his tracks, briefly, when he notices me, but doesn’t say anything as he continues, making his way over to _his spot_. He takes a seat on the stone floor, much more gracefully that I did, and stretches his long legs out in front of him.

I wonder if I should say something. Explain why I’m here. Make up some excuse that doesn’t sound ridiculous.

But then he reaches into blazer and pulls out his flask to take a drink, like he doesn’t need an explanation. Like he’s just accepted that this is what we do now. I inadvertently smile a little—thankfully he doesn’t look at me when he passes me the flask, otherwise he’d think I’m a right weirdo.

I take a large gulp from the flask, thinking it’ll be the same as last week, but I nearly spit it back out.

“Jesus!” I say as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, making sounds like a cat coughing up a fur-ball. (I hate when I swear like a Normal in front of Baz, because he always mocks me for it, but sometimes I can’t help it.) “Why does it taste like a Christmas tree?”

“Gin,” he replies coolly, glancing at me sideways. He bends his knees up and lets his arms drape over them. “You get used to it.”

I hand back the flask and he takes another drink, then holds it out to offer more. And I accept it.

The reasonable part of my brain tells me there’s no point in forcing myself to drink something so disgusting just so I can stay here, sitting on a dirty floor with a bunch of skulls and a pretentious vampire. But the reasonable part of my brain hasn’t had a say in my decision-making process for a while, it seems.

He’s right, though; I do get used to it.

We fall into a similar rhythm as last week, passing the flask back and forth silently. I try to guess what he’s thinking about, but he keeps his expression infuriatingly neutral, staring at the far wall. Every once in a while, however, I notice him tighten his jaw or swallow tensely, like he’s nervous. But I have no idea what he’s got to be nervous about. _I’m_ the one who followed him down to his lair, after all. (Actually, I came down to his lair to wait for him, which is probably worse.)

By the time I spill gin on my jumper, he seems to have relaxed a fair bit, because he laughs out loud at my misfortune. Typically that would make me want to sock him, but I start laughing too.

“You’re a disaster, Snow,” he says as he takes the flask back from me, his cool fingers accidentally brushing mine.

“Yeah, well.” I’m used to hearing him call me a disaster, but never quite so good-naturedly. More like friendly teasing than resentful mockery. I chuckle again. “We can’t all be perfect.”

He snorts—I don’t think I’ve ever heard him snort before. “That’s right. _Basilton ‘Perfect’ Pitch_. The know-it-all with shampoo advert hair. What a fucking honour.”

“It’s true, though, innit? You’re good at _everything_.”

“I’m hardly good at _everything_, Snow,” he says, and takes a long pull from his flask.

“Hey, come on,” I say, reaching across the space between us to nudge him with my elbow. “I wish I was as good with magic as you are. You’re—” I stop myself short of calling my nemesis _brilliant_. “Yeah…”

Baz scoffs, so I nudge him again before taking the flask.

“Seriously, Baz, if I were half as powerful a magician as you are, the Humdrum would be ancient history by now.” I go to take another swig, but freeze when he turns to face me.

His head rests against the wall behind him, like he’s too exhausted to hold it up any longer, as he stares at me intently. “You’re the most powerful magician I’ve ever seen,” he says.

I hold his gaze a minute longer, until he chuckles mirthlessly and rolls his head to face the far wall. “I fucking hate it,” he adds.

“Yeah, well, power’s no good if you can’t control it,” I say, knocking back the flask.

“But you’ll learn to control it, and then—” He looks over at me again. “—You’ll be unstoppable.”

“Are you saying even _you_ wouldn’t be able to defeat me?”

He smirks. “No, obviously _I’ll_ be able to defeat you, still. That’s a given.”

That makes me laugh, too, and I go to bump him with my elbow again only to find I don’t have to reach quite as far. He pushes back against my arm with his and snickers.

“The Humdrum, though,” he continues, as I return the flask. “That poor sod’s got no chance.”

I bite the inside of my cheek to keep my grin from spreading too wide. “Well, I mean, it is in the prophecy, so I guess—”

“Fuck the prophecy, Snow! You’re going to defeat that bastard because you’re strong and fierce and brave, and you’re so bloody _good at heart_ that it makes me sick.”

“Right. Yeah.” I laugh a bit more, but shake my head as lean forward and tuck my knees up under my chin.

I probably can defeat the Humdrum, I know. But I don’t really know why it has to be _me_. Who decided I would be the Chosen One? Was there a vote? Should there be a recount?

“Oh, and, Snow?” Baz says, and I turn to find him leaning towards me so he can keep his voice low. “If you tell anyone I said any of this, I’ll hide a venomous snake under your pillow.”

I swat at his face to make him back off, but I can’t suppress the grin on mine any longer. “Fuck off.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What happens in the Catacombs stays in the Catacombs._

**BAZ**

_“I’m worried you have a problem, mate,”_ Dev said to me last time I hit him up to replenish my provisions.

I assured him I had everything under control, but that wasn’t entirely true. I do have a problem. Just not the problem he thinks.

My problem isn’t that I’m going through this much hard liquor every week—it’s that I’m not going through it alone.

I’m not entirely sure how it happened. Snow just kept _showing up_, and I kept letting him. Sometimes he’s already down here waiting for me when I arrive—I usually stop to grab a quick bite on the way—and sometimes I’m waiting for him. But he always shows up.

I waited for him tonight, but I didn’t have to wait long.

He walked in without any sort of acknowledgement of my presence and took a seat beside me. Over the course of the past few weeks, he’s started to sit closer and closer, so we don’t have to reach as far to pass the flask. Heat radiates off him, warming the entire right side of my body. I feel like I could bask in this warmth forever.

“Hey,” he says as he settles into place. That’s new.

We don’t usually greet each other. We just start drinking in silence until Snow’s had enough to get chatty. It’s the highlight of my week, to be perfectly honest. He’ll just start going off about anything that’s on his mind. Sometimes he vents. Sometimes he tells infantile jokes. Sometimes he shares stories about his life outside of Watford. (Those ones are, admittedly, less fun to hear.)

But it’s never small talk. It’s never awkward greetings and inane conversation about schoolwork. It’s never _“hey.”_

“Hey,” I mutter in return, but I keep my gaze directed at a spot on the far wall.

“So,” he adds, and I can feel him watching me expectantly. “What’s on the menu this week?”

I finally glance over at him. “Menu?”

“You know…” He mimes taking a drink from a flask, and it suddenly hits me that mine is still in my pocket. I hadn’t even managed to keep up the pretence that I _wasn’t_ just waiting for him, apparently.

“Oh, it’s, er—” I struggle to remember the right word as I try to fish the flask out of my school blazer. “Some kind of vodka. Cherry, I think.”

Snow laughs and knocks my arm with his to get me to hand it over. “You have strange taste, mate.”

“Blame my supplier.”

“Who’s your supplier?” he asks before taking a tentative sip. He scrunches up his nose like he’s not sure whether or not he likes it. (He’s probably trying to decide how it compares to his precious sour cherry scones. Unfavourably, I’m sure.)

“None—” I grab the flask back from him with a quick yank. “—Of your business.”

“What, you think I’m gonna go behind your back? Cut out the middle man?” he says, and flashes me a crooked grin.

I chuckle involuntarily, despite not having a drop to drink yet. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh?”

“You’d have to pay for it yourself, for one thing.”

“Yeah, well. Could be worth it. ‘Cause then I wouldn’t have to come down here and sit in a cobweb in order to get sloshed.”

I decide not to point out that he didn’t include sitting with _me_ as a reason not to come down here.

I also decide not to ask why he’s so keen on getting, quote-unquote, _sloshed_ every week. There’s a spark of hope in my gut that maybe it’s not really about getting _sloshed_ at all. Maybe he just enjoys this. A brief reprieve from being at each other’s throat all the time.

Down here, we’re not the _Heir to the House of Pitch_ and the _Chosen One_. We’re just us. We’re just… whatever we are.

Admittedly, I don’t have a fucking clue what we are. About ninety-seven percent of the time, we’re sworn enemies, but for a handful of hours each week, I think we’re something else. Not friends. Not roommates. Nothing I can put a name to.

Snow’s different like this. Sometimes I can sense his magic bubbling up when he drinks—he can get a bit boisterous, constantly bumping his arm into me and talking too loud—but it’s not the same, not like when he’s about to go off. It feels like a pleasant glow radiating off him, which I rather enjoy. By the end of the night, I’m generally leaning so far towards him that we’re pressed shoulder to shoulder, as I soak it all in.

I don’t know what it means.

We fall into our usual silence again tonight, though the back and forth of the flask feels less mechanical. He nudges me with his arm to get my attention before handing it over, instead of shoving it in front of me like he normally would. Which is helpful, because I keep getting lost in my thoughts.

“Baz,” he says as he taps on my shoulder with his knuckles. “You gonna drink or are you just gonna stare at your shoes?”

I guess I zoned out last time he passed me the flask, because I completely forgot I was holding it. I shake my head and pass it back to him. “Go ahead.”

He declines the offer by pushing my hand back, and it practically burns with his touch. “No, it’s okay,” he says with a laugh. “I’ll wait my turn.”

I shake my head again. “I think I’m done,” I say as I press the flask into his hand and let go. “Have the rest.”

“I don’t want the rest, Baz, I just—” He cuts himself off abruptly and I glance over at him. He looks confused, but screws the lid back on the flask, as if the night’s over.

I tuck it back into my jacket pocket when he returns it, but before I can make a move to stand, he sticks his elbow out in front of mine to keep me from getting up.

“You worrying ‘bout something?” he asks, looking at me with sincere concern in his eyes.

“What makes you say that?” I say, though it comes out less biting than I’d like.

“Look, I know we’re not friends—I know we can’t stand each other—but I can still tell when something’s bothering you, yeah?” he says.

“I’m fine, Snow.”

“You’re not _fine_, Baz. You’ve hardly insulted me at all tonight, for starters!”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were that starved for attention.”

“You can tell me stuff, you know,” he adds quietly. “I won’t—I don’t go around telling everyone about this. What happens in the Catacombs stays in the Catacombs.”

He bumps me with his shoulder again, which is enough to elicit a reluctant chuckle from me as I lean my head back against the wall. “You don’t want to know my stuff, Snow.”

“It can’t be that bad. I already know the worst about you.”

I look over at him with an eyebrow raised. “And what’s that?”

“That you’re a vampire who likes booze that tastes like sweets.” He grins again. (I want to kiss his cheek right where it dimples.)

“You think that’s the worst thing about me?”

“Well, you’re bloody perfect in every other respect, so—”

“I’d hardly say that.”

He scoffs. “Name one way you’re not perfect.”

I sigh and contemplate it briefly. “I eat salt and vinegar crisps in bed when you’re asleep.”

“I know. And I hate it. But that’s just an endearing quirk. Try again.”

“How about this? I’m an even bigger fool than you are.”

He makes a fake wincing sound as thinks on this a moment. “Not possible, no. I don’t accept that answer.”

“It’s true.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“It’s not.”

“I promise you, Snow. I am incorrigibly foolish.”

“How so?” He angles himself to face me and frowns. “And you can’t say it’s because you’re talking to me now; that doesn’t count.”

I roll my eyes and look away. “Forget it, Snow.”

“Hey, come on,” he says, giving me a playful punch in the chest. “What could possibly be so bad?”

“Nothing.”

“Baz.”

“No.”

“Baaaaaaz.”

“It’s not important.”

“If you don’t tell me, I’m just going to assume you’re bloody perfect for the rest of time, so you might as well just tell me, or else I’ll have to—”

“I have… _feelings_ for someone. Alright?” I say hastily, hoping it will shut him up about this topic for good. And it does shut him up, for a minute.

“Like… _romantic_ feelings?” he asks slowly.

I give him a pointed look to answer his question.

“But… How is that foolish, though?” he adds.

“I most definitely should _not_ have feelings for this person.”

He blinks at me a few times. “Is it Agatha?”

“What?” I say, holding in a burst of laughter that threatens to escape. “No, it certainly is not.”

“Well, then I don’t—”

“It doesn’t matter who it is, Snow. It would never work.”

“How do you know that?”

“I’m a vampire with horrendous taste, remember?” I snap, though he doesn’t seem fazed.

“I don’t think that someone who likes you will mind that,” he says with a shrug.

“_Nobody_ likes me, you numpty.”

He frowns. “You can’t honestly think that.”

“I’m not like you, Snow. I’m not—” I stop myself, but he puts his hand on my sleeve and squeezes my forearm to urge me to go on. “I’m not… _likeable_. I can be charming when I must, but that’s merely manipulation. That’s not me.”

“What are you, then?” he asks, lowering his voice as he leans in, as if anyone could possibly overhear us down here.

I catch myself staring at his lips and swallow nervously. “_This_. Pathetic. Hopeless.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know anything,” I say as I shake his hand off my arm and pinch the bridge of my nose.

“Hey.” He places his hand on my shoulder and rests his chin on it. His breath tickles my ear. “I know you’re not pathetic and hopeless, yeah?”

“Just fuck off, Snow.”

“I won’t.”

I look at him out of the corner of my eye. He’s so close, it’s making my heart race. He can probably tell. “You won’t _what_?”

“Fuck off.” He smiles a little. Sadly. “I’m not just going to let you beat up on yourself like this, for having regular human emotions.”

“Why not?” I grumble.

“Because.”

“That’s not a reason, Snow.”

“It’s enough of a reason for me,” he says, lifting his head off my shoulder and reaching for my hand as I press my thumb between my eyebrows. “You deserve the same things as anyone.”

My chest feels tight as I watch his face—his gaze is fixed on our clasped hands—but when he finally looks up and his eyes lock with mine, I stop breathing altogether.

“Baz,” he says, so quietly I might not have heard him if it weren’t for my superior senses. “You’re…”

I think he trailed off there, but I can’t be sure. All I can think is how close he is. How warm he is. I think I might kiss him.

I don’t even know how to kiss someone. Snow looks like he does, though. His head is tilted. His lips are slightly parted, like the mouth-breather that he is. He’s drawing my arm in towards his chest, like he’s urging me to lean closer. And I do.

My extremities are buzzing with anticipation and my brain’s having too much of a meltdown to stop any of this.

_Crowley, I think I might kiss Simon Snow._

“Simon…” I say when our noses are nearly close enough to brush, though I immediately let out a loud hiss from the searing pain on the back of my hand.

His cross. He got that thing from the Wellbeloves last Christmas, and made a big show of wearing it every day for the first couple of weeks. He’s been less obvious about it lately, though. I completely forgot it was there, until he held my hand up against his chest.

“Fuck,” he says, a panicked expression taking over his face as he drops my hand and backs away quickly. “S-sorry, I—I didn’t—Fuck.”

“Snow—” I say when he scrambles to his feet, though I’m too dumbstruck to go after him.

I hear him mutter _fuck_ again on his way to the exit, but he doesn’t look back at all.

* * *

I don’t wait for Snow the following week.

I don’t expect him to show up. He’s been avoiding me all week, so I certainly don’t think he’ll be here tonight.

I finish off the whole flask without him, even though it would normally last me a few nights. It doesn’t matter. I wasn’t saving any for him. I didn’t even want to see him, anyway. I would have just done something I’d regret.

Or maybe just something he would regret.

In any case, I don’t wait for him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What happens in the Catacombs.... Wait, what exactly happened in the Catacombs?_

**SIMON**

I haven’t been down here in a couple weeks. But I don’t know what else to do.

Baz has been even colder to me than usual, if that’s possible. It’s not like before we started… whatever this was. Not like when he would taunt me and mock me and get on my last nerve every minute of the day. That would be preferable, honestly.

This is a complete freeze out, instead. He doesn’t acknowledge me in class, even when I royally fuck up a spell in front of everyone. He doesn’t gripe at me about leaving a mess in the bathroom after I shower. He spends even less time in our room than he typically would—I don’t know what he does all day now. I haven’t been following him.

I don’t think he’s plotting, at least; I think he’s hurting.

It feels weird to think that. That he has _feelings_ and that they can be hurt. That his feelings can be hurt by me.

I know I should apologize. I just don’t entirely know what for. I’ve replayed our last night in the Catacombs in my mind over and over trying to figure out _what the fuck_ happened.

Baz opened up to me. Not a lot, granted, but more than he had before. And I thought… it meant something. That he trusted me, to a certain degree. That he felt comfortable around me. That he wanted me to know him. His doubts and his fears. His vulnerability. His humanity.

I also thought that, maybe, possibly…

It was stupid of me. I have no reasonable explanation for it other than I’m just as much of an idiot as Baz has always claimed. That, and I just _wanted to_.

Fuck, I think I wanted to kiss him. And I almost thought he wanted to kiss me until…

He’s a vampire. I know that for a fact now. My cross burned him. _There’s no way I’m the one he has feelings for_, I realized. (I guess I was just projecting, or whatever, because I’ve definitely developed a strange mix of feelings surrounding him, that’s for sure.)

_Merlin_, he obviously doesn’t fancy me. He doesn’t even _like_ me. He can’t stand me.

We can’t escape who we are, not even while drinking in the dark. He’ll always be a Pitch. I’ll always be the Mage’s Heir. He’s a monster, and I’m nothing but a weapon for killing monsters. It doesn’t matter that I don’t want to kill him. What I want doesn’t matter at all.

Still, I need to talk to him. I need to apologize for selfishly trying to turn our _temporary ceasefire_ into something that it’s not.

I’ve thought about bringing it up several times during the past week, but I didn’t know how to bring it up. Even when we were talking—sort of—we never talked about this. Talking about our time in the Catacombs would make it real, would acknowledge that something was happening that we couldn’t explain. So we just didn’t.

I hope to catch him in our spot at the same time this week, but he’s not there when I arrive. For a minute, I wonder if he also stopped coming down here at all—but then I hear footsteps in the tunnels behind me, and I turn just in time to see him walk in. He seems surprised to see me here, but his surprise soon turns to seething annoyance as he glowers at me without a word.

“H-hey,” I say hesitantly, which sounds like the lamest thing I could possibly say in this moment.

His jaw tenses before he swivels on his heel to leave.

“Wait!” I grab his elbow to stop him. I can’t just let him walk out like this. “Baz, I’m sorry.”

He stops and slowly turns to face me again. “You’re _sorry_?” he asks icily.

“Er, well, yeah,” I say as I let go of his arm. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to—I just—”

“Spit it out, Snow.”

I clench my hands into fists. “I’m trying! Just let me apologize!”

“Apologize for what?”

“For—For—Er, I mean, the other day when I—” _Fuck, what are words?_ “Well, I ruined everything!”

He glances over at the spot against the wall, where we used to sit, and then back at me. “There was nothing to ruin, Snow.”

“That’s just it, innit? I tried to make something out of nothing and I—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I pull on my hair in frustration. “You do know! What happened last time,” I say as I gesture to our spot as well. “When I—I, um—”

“Nothing happened last time,” he says, like it’s a threat. “Just leave it.”

“Stop lying! _Jesus!_ I just—I’m not crazy, Baz! You know what happened.”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened, then, hmm?”

“I—We… We talked about… stuff,” I say, straining to get the words out. “About your feelings—”

“I think you misremember—”

“You said you have feelings for someone and I—I told you you’re not pathetic, and then I, well, I burned your hand on my cross—”

“Absurd—”

“—when I was going to kiss you, because I thought—”

“You thought what, exactly?” he snaps. “That I wanted you to kiss me?

I growl and drag both hands through my hair. “I’m _sorry_, okay? I wasn’t thinking, and I just—I wanted to—”

He takes a menacing step forward. “You _wanted_ to kiss me?”

“I don’t know! Maybe! Or maybe I just—” I let out a frustrated groan and drop my hands at my sides in defeat. “_Yes_. Alright? Is that what you want to hear? You drive me up the wall, Baz, and I can’t stop—”

“Snow,” he says, his voice low and angry as he takes another step closer.

My shoulders tense up around my ears as a defensive instinct when he reaches for my neck, but he grabs me by the open collar of my shirt and takes hold of the chain for my cross.

“I’m not upset because you tried to kiss me,” he adds bitterly before giving the chain a yank, hard enough to break the clasp, and tossing it aside. “I’m upset because you have no follow-through.”

I open my mouth to respond, even though I’m struggling to process what he’s said, but he cuts me off with his own. It takes a second to register everything happening at once—his one hand still gripping my shirt while the other holds the back of my head for dear life, the smell of his posh soap overwhelming my senses in the best way possible, his lips pressing against mine…

_I’m kissing Basilton Grimm-Pitch_.

I sigh and let my shoulders relax as I give in to his pull, taking hold of the sides of his blazer to keep him here. Right where I want him. Here, with me, and not off plotting against me or hurting because of me.

I don’t really know what I’m doing, though. I’ve only kissed someone once before, and it was last year during a game of Spin the Bottle that quickly got derailed by jealousy and drama and things not concerning me. And it wasn’t great.

It wasn’t like this.

I’m practically dizzy by the time Baz pulls back, only slightly, for us to catch our breath. “So, um,” I say quietly—he’s still holding me so close, I barely have to speak up at all. “Is—Does this—Am I—”

He huffs a light-hearted laugh. “Spit it out, Snow,” he says, stroking his fingers over the back of my head and looking down at me like I’m something he might want to eat. (Should that be sexy?) (In any case, it is.)

“The person you have feelings for, is it—”

“You? Yes. Excellent deductive skills.”

I laugh too, though it’s practically a giggle, and give him a peck on the lips. “I guess that’s what happens when you get tipsy hanging out with someone in a cobweb enough times.”

He shakes his head. “Before that.”

“Before?”

“For a long time, actually.” He loosens his grip on me, like he thinks I’ll want to run after hearing that. _Maybe he is a fool after all_.

“Wow,” I say as a grin takes over my face.

He smiles a little, too, but it looks like he’s trying not to. “A long time,” he repeats, and leans in to kiss my cheek. “Almost since we met, Simon.”

I reach up for his hand, now loosely holding the front of my shirt, and wrap mine around it. I squeeze and he closes his eyes.

“I thought it was going to kill me,” he says, letting his forehead rest on mine.

_He’s not a monster_, I think.

_And I’m not a weapon._

* * *

_EPILOGUE_

It’s a good thing Baz is a vampire, or else the recent infestation of rats in the Catacombs might have drawn attention to the fact that _someone_ has been leaving food crumbs all over the place.

I can’t help it; we’ve started spending so much time down there that we need to pack snacks.

But I guess it’s a bit of a symbiotic relationship. I bring the food that I need, which in turn brings the rats that Baz needs. (I mean, he also needs food, but he’s still shy about eating in front of me.) (I told him I don’t care about the fangs thing, but I think he’s gonna need more time.)

We’ve even taken to bringing blankets down with us, so we can fold them up and sit on them during our… dates? _Can eating leftover sandwiches in a tomb and then making out a bit be considered a date?_

We come down here almost every day, but it’s not like it was before. For one thing, Baz’s flask stays put in his bedside table, empty. And for another, well, yeah, there’s some kissing. And hand-holding. Lots of hand-holding. (I love holding Baz’s hands; they’re so cold and strong.)

It’s still a secret, though. Just between the two of us, and just when we’re down here. The rules of the outside world don’t apply. To do this stuff anywhere else—even our own room—would be like declaring it as a Thing. And we’re still figuring it out. (Plus, I’m a little worried about the slippery slope of making out in our room. With beds. Better to take it one step at a time, I think.)

“Snow,” he says, giving my hand a squeeze.

I look up from where I’ve been lazily tracing swirls over his forearm and smile. “I thought you were gonna call me Simon down here,” I say cheekily.

“_Simon_,” he adds with an annoyed tone, though I know he’s just pretending. “Do you think… we should stop?”

“Stop?” I sit up straighter, instead of leaning against his shoulder, and stare at him in disbelief. _He wants us to stop?_

“Wait, no—” He pulls my hand in close to his chest. “I just meant, stop all this… pretending.”

“Meaning…?”

“Meaning,” he says as he lifts my hand again to kiss the back of it, “we stop pretending this isn’t real. We tell people. Like our friends.”

“I—I didn’t know you’d want that…”

“I’m not saying we snog in the dining hall or anything.”

I bump him with my elbow playfully.

“I just… I’m tired of hiding,” he continues. “I’m not ashamed of you, Simon.”

“Even though I’m the worst Chosen One that’s ever been chosen?” I say, half-jokingly.

“You’re not. You’re Simon Snow. You’re the sun. You’re—” He sighs and looks down at our entangled fingers. “You’re my boyfriend, and I want to stop pretending you’re anything less.”

_Boyfriend_.

I lean into him again, smiling. “Okay. We’ll tell people.”

“Good.”

“We’ll tell people we’re boyfriends.”

“Yes.”

“And you’ll call me Simon, even in public, from now on.”

“I didn’t say that.”

I chuckle and press my face against his shoulder. “That’s okay, I suppose. I like having something just for me.”

He kisses the top of my head. “So do I.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you want to know about my WIPs and other random, vaguely Carry On or fanfic-related things I like to talk about, you can find me on tumblr as [@f-ing-ruthless-baz](https://f-ing-ruthless-baz.tumblr.com)!


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